


Marketing Mix

by dget



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Growing Up Together, Kid Fic, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:48:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25538308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dget/pseuds/dget
Summary: The boy is looking alarmingly wobbly-lipped, so Sherlock offers the first thing he can think of. “Do you want to see my pirate ship?”John is still sniffling, but seems willing to be distracted. “You have a pirate ship?”“Yeah! Well, you have to pretend a little bit. But she’s a good ship. I’m the captain, and her name is the Black Skull.”“Your ship is a her?”“Yes, ships are always hers,” Sherlock informs the older boy knowledgeably. “Come on, I’ll show you.”---It takes a few tries to get the right people in the right place at the right time.A "what if they first met as children" AU.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	Marketing Mix

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for this being a currently incomplete work, for content including drugs and offscreen sex, and for the possibility of future chapters mentioning two teenagers doing the hanky-panky.

John’s out alone tonight.

Well, not _alone_ alone. He’s surrounded by people – fit, sweaty bodies, gyrating, dancing. But he’s left his friends behind tonight. They’re out at their local, near the university, watching tonight’s match. They won’t be heading to this part of town.

John should be able to relax.

He gestures to the man behind the bar for another. The well whiskey is awful, but he’s broke and not drunk enough yet. He accepts the drink with a nod of thanks, and checks out the bartender’s ass as he walks away, ignoring the reflex that tells him to look up and make sure no one saw him doing that. He can look, here.

He looks, but he’s not ready to participate just yet. John stays at the end of the bar, nursing his drink and building his courage. He sips slowly, slowly. He’s fine as long as he’s pacing himself. It doesn’t stop the desire to slam the drink back, but he can make himself wait. It’s good to practice self-discipline.

Soon a man with long blond hair takes the seat next to John. He’s got warm brown eyes and introduces himself as Chris, with a firm handshake, which John finds charming. They make light conversation. John admits that he’d originally had plans to watch the match, but he decided on something different tonight instead.

Chris smiles. “Might as well make it worth your while, then,” he grins, and orders John a drink, something with a ridiculous name.

“Very smooth,” John laughs, but he doesn’t refuse it. He doesn’t want to be impolite, after all.

Twenty minutes later and John is feeling much better, warm and loose and laughing and ready to drown in Chris’s big eyes, and what the hell is in an AMF cocktail anyways? He’s got one hand on Chris’s thigh, and he’s just about feeling ready to dance. The beat is pulsing and making him twitch on his stool. He turns to scan the floor, gauging whether he could get away with interrupting Chris by simply pulling him up to dance, when he sees it.

Dark hair, pale skin, full lips, sharp cheekbones. Not the best dancer on the floor, but certainly the one who seems to be enjoying himself the most, despite his lack of a partner. Or rather, there are men he is dancing with, but no one he is dancing _with_. Somehow it seems like a distinction.

John suddenly realizes that Chris has finished his story and that he has completely missed the punchline. He turns back to those brown eyes, watching him expectantly, and forces a smile. Suddenly this is no longer where John needs to be. “It’s been really nice chatting with you, Chris,” he says, abruptly and gracelessly, dropping his glass on the bar. “Thanks for the drink.” He doesn’t even try to make an excuse as he slides off of his seat and heads to the dance floor.

His breath quickens as he approaches the dancer. With how loud the music is, he can almost pretend that it’s the vibration from the speakers that’s making his heart rattle in his chest. The man is dancing solo at the moment – perfect. He hasn’t seen John approach. John slides up behind him and places one hand on his waist.

The man tenses, ever so slightly. John places his other hand on the man’s neck, pushing his fingers up into the curls. The man relaxes. Under his palms, John can feel the man say something, though the music is too loud to hear it, but John knows what it is.

His own name.

“Hello, Sherlock,” he murmurs to the man’s ear. “It’s been a while.” He moves closer, still swaying to the beat, and curls his hand possessively around that pale neck.

Sherlock leans into his touch for a moment before twisting in John’s hold to face him. He has to dip his head to be heard, but surely his lips don’t need to be brushing John’s ear like that. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” he purrs.

John has to fight an ugly laugh. No, Sherlock probably wasn’t. As it is, he can feel his mouth twisting somewhere between a smile and a grimace. “I needed a change of pace,” he says. A non-answer.

“Hmm,” Sherlock hums. “Does mine suit?”

John does laugh at that. It’s one of the things he likes best about Sherlock, his ability to cut through all the bullshit and get right to the matter at hand. It’s refreshing. “I don’t know…” he pretends to deliberate, trailing his hands down to Sherlock’s waist, pulling their hips closer together, matching Sherlock’s rhythmic movements, perfectly in sync. “It seems to.” It feels amazing, actually.

He’s happy to simply dance with Sherlock for a few more songs, enjoying the feeling of Sherlock’s tall, slim, warm body against his own. They don’t talk. Sherlock has his eyes closed most of the time in apparent bliss. John feels floaty and wonderful holding Sherlock in his arms like this. After a bit, though, he becomes aware of the effect that he’s having on Sherlock – specifically, on his trousers - and suddenly he needs to be out of this place. He grinds hard against Sherlock, and Sherlock’s eyes fly open on a gasp, fingers spasming on John’s upper arms. His pupils are huge. “Let’s get out of here,” John says, with one final thrust for emphasis. Sherlock nods.

They tumble out onto the street and into a cab. Sherlock knows better than to ask whose place they’re going to, and simply gives the cabbie what must be his own address. The ride takes too long, John squeezing Sherlock’s thigh, but eventually, thankfully, they arrive.

The flat is a tip, but John barely notices as Sherlock herds him into the bedroom. Finally, god, he’s got those plush lips against his own again. It’s been far too long.

  
  


“So, there’s something I need to know,” John says conversationally to the ceiling, tangled in Sherlock’s bedsheets. Sherlock grunts, which is probably as close to permission to ask as John will get. “Was I your first? I always suspected I was, but I never knew for sure.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John, of course I’ve had sex before,” Sherlock says dismissively, willfully misunderstanding. John knows Sherlock has slept with people before tonight, because John was one of those people.

“Not _now,_ you dick, I meant before. Back home.”

“Hm. ‘Home.’ Funny you still call it that, you’ve been gone long enough. Though you’ll soon be leaving the country entirely, won’t you?”

John decides to let Sherlock avoid the question, and smiles into the dark. “Yeah. I’m meant to report on Monday for final training before we ship out. How did you know?” he asks, because that’s how this goes – Sherlock is brilliant, and John asks to hear the explanation and calls him amazing.

“Your wallet,” Sherlock answers distractedly, and uncharacteristically does not elaborate. He’s fiddling with something in the bedside table.

“To be honest, it will be weird, finally being overseas. Anything could happen over there. But Jesus, I’m ready to be actually doing something! Saving lives! I can’t wait to be out of here.”

There is a long silence, and then a great sniff. For a moment John panics, thinking that he’s somehow made the cold genius cry. He reaches off the edge of the mattress to flip the light on. Then he rolls over and sees that Sherlock is doing a bump of coke.

It’s only slightly less alarming than seeing him cry.

“What the fuck?” he asks, stupidly, as his brain tries to process what he’s seeing. Then: “ _Jesus,_ Sherlock,” because of course Sherlock is using stimulants, of course that fast heart rate was _drugs_ and not _John,_ of course the most brilliant man he knows is also the most completely _thick._

Sherlock finishes, and sighs contentedly, before looking up to observe John’s reaction. “Oh, sorry, did you want some?” he asks carelessly, pretending again like he doesn’t know exactly what John’s thinking.

“No,” says John, and his voice is embarrassingly small.

“It’s just to help with the comedown,” Sherlock explains, lying back into the pillows, and already he looks blissful again, even more relaxed than he did after orgasming not ten minutes ago. And now, with the light on, John can see the telltale signs of harder drug use – track marks inside the elbows, a stomach so concave he can count Sherlock’s ribs. John has seen too many users during his clinical rotations to pretend that this is not the body of an addict. He feels sick.

Suddenly John is ridiculously, disproportionately furious. “Whatever you need to tell yourself,” he snaps, rolling out of bed, postcoital glow evaporating as he shoves his feet into his trousers and stands, searches for his wallet and shoes. God, how could he forget how completely infuriating Sherlock is? Selfish, clueless, ridiculous –

“I assure you, it’s just an occasional indulgence. Much like your own drinking habits. Whatever comparisons you’re drawing right now to your mother or your sister are entirely off-target.”

-and a complete ARSEHOLE. John can hardly believe him.

“Actually, your own habits should cause you more concern, given how much you drink even when you tell yourself you’re going to drink less. In fact, based on your shoes -”

“ _My_ habits? No, no, we are not doing this now. Or ever. And when you pick up your next fuck at a club, you might try telling him that you shoot up on the regular BEFORE YOU COME IN HIS MOUTH!” John storms out of the flat, making sure to yell the last part as he slams the door, and hopes that Sherlock has some really homophobic neighbors.

What a prick.

* * *

_Summer, 1985._

Sherlock splashes down the creek, stick in hand, chasing his paper boat. He’s farther away from home than he’s usually allowed, but Mummy is in no state to notice his absence today. Besides, he knows how to get back, easy – all he has to do is turn around and follow the creek back to the Holmes property. He’ll return when all the people are gone.

His boat is stuck up against a fallen log in the creek. He prods it with his stick, but he can’t quite reach it. Sherlock climbs up the log, balancing carefully, and reaches out again. He’s almost got it –

“Hey!”

Sherlock falls abruptly off the log and on his bum, water up to his belt.

“What are you doing here?” The speaker is a boy, a little older than himself, standing on the bank of the creek, clutching a toy car.

“I’m following my boat,” Sherlock huffs, heaving himself out of the water. “It got stuck.” He points – “Hey! It’s gone!”

The boy turns his head downstream, scanning from his higher vantage point. “There it is!” He points. “Come on!” The boy runs off.

Sherlock won’t be able to keep up from the creek bed. He scrambles up, but he slips on the muddy bank. He reaches out to keep from falling, but there’s nothing to grab on to –

Suddenly, a small, damp hand is holding his. Sherlock looks up to see the boy, blue eyes staring earnestly into his own. “Come on!” the boy repeats, tugging on his hand insistently. Sherlock unfreezes and, with the boy’s help, makes it out of the creek bed. He’s only up a moment and the two of them are off, tearing downstream after the boat.

After a breathless, muddy chase, the boat is retrieved, and Sherlock finds himself standing on the edge of the creek bed with the strange boy. He takes a closer look: blue eyes, blond hair, a few inches taller than Sherlock. His clothes hang loosely on his frame in a way that makes Sherlock think they originally belonged to another family member, most likely an older brother. He’s still holding his matchbox car.

“I’m John,” says the boy. “What’s your name?”

“Sherlock,” Sherlock answers. “Well, really it’s Billy and Sherlock’s my middle name. But I like Sherlock better.”

John seems to agree. “I wish my middle name was that cool. Your trousers are all wet still. Why are you dressed up so nice?”

Sherlock blinks at the non sequitur. His trousers are indeed still dripping from their dunk in the creek, and his shoes are covered in mud. His mother will be furious if she finds out. “It’s my grandfather’s funeral today,” he answers John.

“Oh,” John says, looking down and fiddling with the toy car. “I’m sorry. My dad died. I didn’t have to wear clothes like that, though. Are you sad?”

John is certainly a very direct child. “A little bit,” Sherlock answers honestly. “I didn’t get to see him very often. He was sick. Are you still sad about your dad?”

“Yeah,” John sniffs a little bit. “I’m sad that he’s gone, and I’m sad that we had to move, and I’m sad that I had to leave my friends at school.”

The boy is looking alarmingly wobbly-lipped, so Sherlock offers the first thing he can think of. “Do you want to see my pirate ship?”

John is still sniffling, but seems willing to be distracted. “You have a pirate ship?”

“Yeah! Well, you have to pretend a little bit. But she’s a good ship. I’m the captain, and her name is the Black Skull.”

“Your ship is a her?”

“Yes, ships are always hers,” Sherlock informs the older boy knowledgeably. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

After a bit of traipsing back along the creek, the two boys reach the edge of the Holmes property. Sherlock takes a sharp right and leads John into a copse of trees. There, two fallen logs form a V shape, and the bow of the Black Skull. An old crate which Sherlock appropriated from his father’s shed stands in the gap between, which alternates as the upper deck and the crow’s nest as needed. A scrap of black cloth tied to a stick planted in the ground serves as her banner.

Sherlock is gratified to see that John seems appropriately excited about his ship. “Wow, this is so cool!” John exclaims, immediately clambering up on the port log, all trace of tears long gone. John pretends to squint into the distance. “Captain! I see an island!”

“Wait!” Sherlock interrupts. If you’re going to be first mate, you need a sword.” He hands John his favorite sword-stick from under the crate, because he is feeling generous. He can use his second-favorite sword stick for a while. “Also, if you see land, you’re supposed to say, ‘land ho!’

John takes direction well, and with a couple of exceptions – “There can’t be mermaids, John, mermaids aren’t real!” “How do YOU know?” – they play together cooperatively for hours. Dusk is falling when Sherlock hears Mycroft calling his name.

“John! We must be quiet! The fat captain of the Royal Navy is searching for us, and if he spots us, we’ll be hanged!”

The two of them crouch behind the crate as Mycroft draws closer. “Who is it really?” John whispers.

“My archenemy,” Sherlock whispers back dramatically. “His name is Mycroft… and he’s my brother.”

At this, John catches a fit of the giggles, which gives them away to Mycroft.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft scolds. “Mummy’s been worried sick! How could you go running off, today of all days? And look at your suit,” he continues, dismayed. “You’re a mess.” Mycroft then catches sight of John, and does a double take. “Who’s this?”

“I’m John Watson,” John pipes up. “I’m Sherlock’s new best friend.”

This is a surprise to Sherlock. “You’re my new best friend?” he asks.

“Well, you’re MY new best friend,” John replies. “So that means I’m yours, too. That’s how it works.”

Sherlock finds himself looking to Mycroft, as he often does when he’s unsure. He thinks he sees Mycroft’s lips twitching. “His logic is sound,” Mycroft offers.

Well, that settles it then. “I’m glad you’re my best friend,” he tells John. John grins in response.

“So, John Watson, where do you live?” Mycroft asks. “Your mother must be worried about you by now.”

A shadow passes over John’s face. “I don’t think so,” he says opaquely, but he points back the way they’d come. “I live that way.”

Since it’s getting dark, Mycroft insists that they walk John home, along the road this time instead of the creek. When they reach the house, John doesn’t invite them inside, and no one comes out to meet them – John simply reaches up and tests to see that the handle is unlocked. When the door opens a sliver, John turns back to address them. “Thank you for walking me home,” he says to Mycroft politely. Then he turns to Sherlock, and his smile brightens his whole face. “Bye, Sherlock,” he says. “I’ll see you soon!”

  
  


The next day, there is a knock at the door of the Holmes place. The door opens to reveal John. “Can Sherlock come play?”

They pass the summer this way.

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to point out my Americanisms.
> 
> I have at least another chapter written. This is definitely going to be more of a cute 'what if' story, and will be light on plot.
> 
> Thank you for reading!!!


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